


If I Could Only Get You Oceanside

by acertainheight



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age II
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-19 03:53:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1454419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acertainheight/pseuds/acertainheight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kinkmeme prompt: "Isabela finally gets her ship, and wants to take off to sea at once, bringing Hawke along with her. But Hawke is firmly against the idea, and after a bit of prodding, Isabela learns that Hawke is terrified of being out on the open ocean. Clearly the solution for this is crazy sex in the captain's quarters out in the harbor. Clearly." ...And so captain's-quarters-sex ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If I Could Only Get You Oceanside

“What do you mean, you're afraid of the sea?”

It's long past midnight and they've been wandering the darkest streets of Kirkwall for an hour now, half-drunk and giddy with laughter and the presence of each other. A night like any other. Until now. Isabela has led— _been_ leading, Hawke realizes now—here here to the docks, to her ship, with a plea on her lips. Hawke wasn't ready for the request; Isabela wasn't ready for the reply.

At first, Hawke assumes her question is a jest, another step in this familiar dance, and a retort leaps unbidden to her tongue as naturally as drawing breath—but then Isabela speaks again, her voice coloring with consternation before Hawke can find her own. 

“I don't understand. You can't be, can you?” Her brow is furrowed in genuine bewilderment and her golden eyes are dark with suspicion, as if _Hawke_ must be the one mocking _her_. “How could you possibly—Hawke, there's nothing better than the open ocean! And you, you never said you were afraid!”

Hawke feels the blood rush to her cheeks, a flood of hot embarrassment. Isabela's tone is petulant and accusing at once, almost pained, the tender edge of hurt far harder to handle than the mockery that she had expected. “It's...well, it's big. And deep. I don't like the sound of big and deep.”

Isabela settles her hands on her hips, letting out a huff of a sigh that does nothing to mask the sudden subtle ache in her voice. “Hawke, if you don't want to come with me, all you have to do is say no. You don't have to lie to me.”

“No, no, I do! I really do. It's just—”

“It's just that you don't.” She exhales and refuses to meet Hawke's eyes, aiming her sharp frown at the stars above instead.

“Isabela,” Hawke breathes, reverent, “I do. I swear I do. If you sailed away without me—I think I'd die, if only out of sheer boredom. Who else would help me get into so many terrible messes?”

A smile flickers across Isabela's face at that. “A fair point. And what would you do without me around to drag you out of them?”

“As if you've ever done anything at all to help me, you terrible fiend.” They both laugh, falling back into their easy, teasing pattern, and Hawke hesitantly dares to return to the lingering question: “I mean it, you know. When I say I'm afraid. I'm not afraid of much, but I'm afraid of this.”

Isabela's lips part, as if she's moments from speaking—but she stays silent, eyes clouded and searching stare fixed on Hawke. 

“I always have been. Ever since I was a child. The last time I was stupid enough to set foot on a boat was the voyage to Kirkwall, and I spent every hour patiently waiting to die. When I wasn't puking, I was gripping anything solid I could find and bargaining with the Maker.”

“First of all,” Isabela says, her eyes narrowed in fierce indignation, “it's a ship. Not a boat. Second of all, I am not proposing that you huddle in the hold with a bunch of refugees smelling of vomit and dog-shit. It is most certainly not the same.”

“It doesn't make the ocean less big. Or less deep. Or less—” She wiggles her fingers like some imagined deep-dwelling creature, shuddering. “—spooky.”

A sudden light sparks in Isabela eyes—inspiration, Hawke thinks, or some mad scheme—and when she speaks again, it's with great care. “Why don't we get on the ship and take a look around? We're already here. Maybe that will change your mind.”

“It won't help.” Hawke pushes her hair back from her eyes and offers up a half-hearted shrug. The chill of the night air pricks at her relentlessly, and with every gust of freezing wind, she feels more sober than she wants to; her chest is tight at the thought of following Isabela onto the ship. “Nothing will help.”

They stare at each other for a silent moment, breathing out in cold, visible puffs. Though winter has begun to settle over Kirkwall, Isabela is dressed no more warmly than ever, and Hawke cannot help the way her gaze traces over her bare skin. Every moment she's not touching Isabela is a moment where she wishes she was, and her fingers itch to catch Isabela by the hand and tug her close. If she could bring herself to board the ship, if she could somehow summon the strength, sail off into the unknown—Maker, she would do it in a heartbeat. But the fear has tied a knot in her stomach that she can't untangle.

“Just a look,” Isabela says.

“It won't help,” Hawke echoes.

Isabela pauses, taking in the line of Hawke's stare, and then she casts tact to the wind. There are other, better methods of negotiation. With two agile steps, she has her hands on Hawke's hip, pushing the taller woman up against the wobbly railing of the dock, hungry lips on hers. When they part, it is only for Isabela to press closer to her, voice a soft rumble in her ear: “Come on, sweet thing, haven't you ever heard of christening a ship? It needs breaking in.”

“I thought—I thought you were supposed to break a bottle on it.” One kiss and already Hawke thinks that her heart might leap from her chest.

“Some people do that.” She kisses her again, and Hawke can still taste the sour ale on her lips. “Some of us are more creative. The captain's quarters await us. Captain's orders.”

“But—I don't—”

“Be brave, my silly Champion,” Isabela says, and it's a command that Hawke would never dare to disobey. She _couldn't_ disobey, not if she wanted to—not with Isabela's lips on hers and Isabela's hands on her hips and Isabela so soft and hot against her.

It isn't the first time she's let this weakness get her into trouble, she thinks. And then she thinks:  _wouldn't it be embarrassing to drown right here in the harbor._

Isabela takes her hands, tugging her away, closer to the end of the dock. Closer to the ramp of the ship. Her grin is wide enough to light up the black night; her hands are warm enough to almost still Hawke's racing heart. Almost.

But when Isabela stops halfway up the ramp to kiss her, too eager to wait, Hawke pauses and pushes back against her for half an instant. “I'm scared. Of—of being on the boat.”

“I promise you won't be thinking about the ocean once I have you on board.” She nips at Hawke's neck, eyes alight with amusement and hunger. “And it's a _ship_. Say it again and you'll earn yourself a spanking.”

“I'm sorry for not calling your boat a ship.”

“Mm, you awful thing,” Isabela sighs, and then she kisses Hawke again, pushing her up the unsteady ramp with a recklessness that would terrify Hawke if she wasn't too busy thinking about the perfect burn of Isabela's hands against her.

Once they're on board, Isabela pauses to survey her domain. Her voice is heavy with pride; Hawke can't ever remember hearing her so happy. “Take a look around, sweet thing. If I get my way, by the time the month is out, it'll be just you and me, this ship, and the open ocean all around us. And,” she adds as an afterthought, tilting her head with a smile that is warm and dangerous at once, “you know that I always get my way.”

“Chasing the horizon, I suppose.” Hawke tries to sound casual as she recalls Isabela's phrase, as if she hasn't had it imprinted on her heart ever since—tries not to let her voice catch with fright or want or anything in between.

“Until we catch it.”

And then she's done waiting. They move with a graceful, practiced ease, and Isabela swings the door of her quarters open just as easily as she does the door of Hawke's bedroom in the estate. The door slams shut behind her.

“You'll make a lovely cabinboy,” Isabela says, eyeing Hawke from a step away before catching her by the loops of her belt and tugging her closer, their hips meeting roughly. Hawke can't answer with anything other than a breathless laugh against Isabela's lips.

Hawke is half a head taller even with the heels on Isabela's boots, but practice makes perfect, and Isabela pulls herself up on her tiptoes, hands knotted in the rough fabric of Hawke's tunic. Her kiss nearly makes Hawke's knees buckle even now, and Hawke's fingers dig into her wide hips when Isabela's hands slide up against the hard muscle of her stomach. Isabela's hands are fire against her skin, slowly burning away her fear.

Isabela drops down from her stretch, lips instead going to Hawke's neck, scattering heavy kisses—warm, bruising kisses that Hawke knows she'll catch hell for from each of their friends—before settling in the soft nook between her neck and her shoulderblade. The fire snakes up Hawke's ribs as Isabela's hands climb her chest, and she stretches upwards, letting Isabela slip the tunic over her head.

“You're too easy,” Isabela teases, pressing a kiss to her clavicle. “Aren't you going to make me work for it?”

“I'd rather let you have me, Captain,” Hawke murmurs, testing the waters. She lowers her hands, fingers pressing hard against the warm expanse of Isabela's bare thighs, pulling her ever-closer.

Isabela chuckles at the title, a warm heady rumble low in her throat, and raises a hand to pat Hawke's cheek. “I do like the sound of that. Keep it up and I'll promote you to cannonball polisher.”

Hawke falls into her touch with a desperate willingness, letting Isabela steer her backwards until she slams her down hard against the bed, climbing on top and casting her hidden daggers aside in one fluid motion. Isabela straddles her with one leg pressed between Hawke's, hands pinning her wrists back against the sheets. Normally there is a struggle, an evenly-matched war between them, each fighting to settle on top of the other. Hawke is never one to submit, not without a fight, and even then not quite fully. But tonight—

“My captain,” she breathes, suddenly aware of desire damp between her legs. She can feel Isabela's mouth curl up in a hungry grin against her. The hunter and her willing prey.

Isabela releases Hawke's hands only to guide them to the string of her corset, and she watches with dark, eager eyes as Hawke pulls the binding loose. Hawke's fingers are too clumsy with longing to succeed as swiftly as either would like, but at last the lacing comes undone. Her tunic follows, far quicker, and Hawke casts both to the floor. Isabela is bare and beautiful before her, the freckles of her shoulders visible, the soft curve of her stomach warm against Hawke's palm. Her eyes are as rich a gold as the stud beneath her lip. Hawke is not a religious woman, but sometimes—the times when she's too sentimental for her own good—with the welcome weight of Isabela against her, she thinks that perhaps she owes the Maker her thanks.

Breaking from the mad rush of it all, Hawke slows for a moment just to stare up at her, long enough for Isabela to undo her scarf. Her dark curls tumble down against the rich brown of her skin and Hawke reaches to tangle a hand in her hair, gazing up at her with her heart caught in her throat. And then her gaze turns into eyes fluttering shut when Isabela's mouth crashes into hers.

After one more long, burning kiss, Isabela's lips trail back down Hawke's chest, at last reaching the curve of her breasts. Her mouth closes around her nipple and one hand slides down to her other breast—licking, sucking, teasing with her tongue and fingers alike until Hawke is tight with want beneath her. Hawke arches against her, gripping her ass with one hand and the sheets with the other. Her legs tighten around Isabela's, and then they tighten further when Isabela slides her hand down to run along the edge of Hawke's trousers. She presses upwards into the touch, hips grinding against Isabela's, and a soft whimper slips from her lips.

“Now, now,” Isabela chides, voice low, lips like lightning on Hawke's skin, “that won't do at all. I never gave you permission to make noise.” She shifts her leg, spreading Hawke's legs apart, sliding her trousers down a single inch. “You'll have to be more careful, won't you?”

Hawke takes a deep breath, as steady as she can manage with Isabela's lips against her. “Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, Captain.” When Isabela's fingers brush against her skin as she slips Hawke's pants down inch by slow inch, it takes every last inch of control that Hawke has to keep her mouth locked shut.

At last, an eternity later, her trousers are at her ankles, and then tossed to the side. Isabela kisses her and Hawke cants her hips upwards again, every bare inch of her body striving to be against every inch of Isabela's. Isabela pushes her back down against the sheets. One hand dips between Hawke's legs, parting damp curls, and then her fingers press up to rub slow circles against Hawke, testing and teasing. The hint of a moan rises to her lips and Isabela kisses her to silence her, biting her lip in stern reprimand; that nearly earns a second moan of pleasure from Hawke as she presses up into the force of the kiss, but to her own disbelief, she manages to resist.

When Isabela again begins to trace the length of her body with kisses, Hawke knows she won't be able to hold on much longer. Isabela's lips are soft against her breasts, soft against the thick scar of the Arishok's sword down the length of her stomach—lingering there, as she does every time, each moment a quiet apology—and then her mouth is slipping lower, lower—

Isabela's tongue passes against her clit, curling against her, and Hawke's fingernails dig half-moons into Isabela's shoulders as she fights desperately to keep her mouth shut despite the current sweeping through her. Her legs are wrapped around Isabela now, bucking up into her, pulling her mouth closer—a desperate lifeline but a useless one—she's drowning all the same, sinking further beneath the waves with each pass of Isabela's tongue. Hawke struggles to stay silent, her whole body striving with the effort of it. Nothing has ever been so difficult.

And then Isabela's tongue is gone, replaced by two fingers sliding easily into her, and Hawke tightens around her. She pulls her back up, their lips locking again, and Hawke can taste herself on Isabela's tongue until she can't focus any longer, until her world fades away into the sensation of Isabela thrusting into her. Her fingers press against her perfectly, immediately finding just the right spot to send Hawke arching up into her, nails scraping across Isabela's back as a desperate replacement for every sound she cannot make. Isabela lets out a soft pleasured sound of her own and the hand inside of her presses deeper, harder—

Hawke holds out as long as she is able, but at last she cannot help herself, and a ragged gasp of a moan tears from deep in her throat. With one more pump, she's gone, the moan transformed into a shout, an explosion, a scream as she flies over the edge. Hawke clenches around Isabela, legs locked around her, fingers digging into her. The kiss falls apart as she throws her head back, and her body slams upwards into Isabela, crashing against the shore—swept out to sea, caught in the storm—

Isabela draws back and slows without stopping, watching Hawke with that hungry-eyed stare, drawing out every single instant into an eternity.

When at last the pounding pulses of pleasure fade, they leave behind a flooding bliss, one that leaves her weak and still and with her vision as shaky as her breathing. Isabela kisses her one more time, tenderness mixed with the desire, and then she pulls out and away, arms wrapping about her in a snug embrace. She kisses the top of her head and Hawke smiles a secret smile against Isabela's chest at the gesture, pressing closer into her. Isabela lets her fingers dance across Hawke's arm, over her bicep, down to weave their fingers together.

“Did you forget?”

Hawke merely stares at her, still too breathless to utter a query of _what_.

“That we're on a ship. Did you forget? Or are you swooning with fear?”

“I...” She tries to catch her breath, her voice coming out rough and quiet from the force of her cries. “Somehow, yes, I forgot. And remembering wasn't quite as terrifying as I expected.”

“Then you're healed! Fantastic. We'll set sail in a week's time.” Isabela chuckles at the look of dismay on Hawke's face and squeezes her hand. “I'm only teasing, you goose. We'll leave whenever you're ready. I'm happy to stay in KIrkwall until then, and no, I can't believe I'm saying that either.” She pauses, smiles a sly smile. “If this helped, I suppose I could be convinced to repeat my efforts.”

“Another session tonight couldn't hurt,” Hawke says, pressing a quick kiss to her neck, tasting the sweet salt of her skin, “as long as you give me a second to recover first. You know, I never got that spanking you promised, but I'm starting to think _you_ deserve one.”

“Mm,” Isabela sighs, “I knew there was a reason I liked you.”

They lie there, still, for a long time. Hawke basks in Isabela's touch, the softness of her, the smell of her. It isn't like this, not at the estate—there, Isabela is gone out the window, restless mere moments after they fall back breathless into the sheets. But not here. Here on her ship, Isabela seems content to linger with her arms around her. Hawke is starting to think that she could get used to this.

“Well,” Hawke asks at long last, almost hesitant to break the peace that has settled around them, “what are you going to name it?”

Isabela traces gentle circles on Hawke's arm, raising a brow. “What?”

“The boat. Ship. We've christened it. You have to rename it, right?” She lets her eyes flicker shut, focusing on the warmth of Isabela against her.

“I thought, perhaps...” She trails off, pressing a kiss to Hawke's forehead. Her voice is suddenly tinged with embarrassment. “Do you remember when you gave me that ship in a bottle?”

“I remember.”

“The _Encanto_ ,” she says. “It's silly, but I thought we might call it that.”

Hawke opens her eyes. She props herself up on an elbow, claiming another kiss. “Don't tell me you're getting sentimental on me, Isabela.”

“Can't you find something better to do with that mouth of yours than make fun of me?”

“I think I can oblige,” Hawke says.

And she does.


End file.
